The Wonderful, Fantastic, Mad, and Terrifying Life of Molly Hooper
by kittensincellos
Summary: To say Molly was warned about Sherlock Holmes was an understatement. Everyday of her two-year internship at St. Bart's, she was told by her soon-to-be predecessor, Mr. Bahlmor, if a "tall, rude man" were to ever drop by the morgue, call him immediately. The morning after his retirement and Molly's new position as mortician of St. Bart's, that's precisely what happened.
1. Chapter 1

The morning started off as it normally did, with her tiptoeing past her hung-over flatmate. She hated living with the young med student-she was rude and made too much noise, far too late at night-but Molly smiled at the knowledge that her new salary would mean she could move out and get her own flat. Maybe she could finally buy a cat?

She inhaled deeply in the lobby of the hospital; nothing like the smell of bandages and antiseptic in the morning. Humming to herself in the elevator, she runs through the day's schedule. First, prep two bodies for examination by the Yard at noon; then, clean yesterday's instruments; next, call the repair company about a replacement bone-saw; lastly, write up those four reports she's been putting off.

The long walk down an empty corridor to the morgue might frighten some, but working with the dead all day tends to make you less afraid of the trivial things, and more afraid of the much more real; like heart attacks, and murders, and what the meat in the hospital cafeteria is made from.

She hangs her coat and bag by the door, and has one sleeve in her lab coat when she hears a murmur. She couldn't quite make out what the voice said, but she defiantly heard the words "killer" and "murder weapon". She scrambles for her purse and digs out her mace.

She flicks the light switch only to see a twiggy man in a black hoody all-but cuddling with one of her bodies. The body was in an unceremonious heap on the floor, next to the man lying down. She recognized the ligature marks on the body's ankles as that of one of the murder victims scheduled to be examined today. He seemed far too busy examining the body's hair to notice Molly's presence.

His speech was slurred and it sounded like he was ranting about the "incompetence of tube operators". Molly made a run for the supply closet kiddie-corner to the door. She pulled out her phone and frantically dialed the number Mr. Bahlmor gave her. Of all the places she could be found murdered, a supply closet would be on her list as a rather embarrassing spot. Although, her "_places-to-be-found-murdered_" list was rather short; in fact, it had only one line reading "don't".

Her hands were shaking horribly, causing her fingers to slip across the keys. She quietly let out one of her "substitute curse-words"-they mostly consisted of types of pasta and strange animal names—and started to type the number over again. Eventually she heard the ringing of the line attempting to connect.

"Hello?" said a groggy voice on the other end.

"Hello, um, I'm sorry to wake you, but there seems to be a man in the morgue, on the floor talking to himself, while poking at one of the bodies, sir." she stammers.

The voice curses and says "All right, don't call the police. I'll give you Lestrade's number. Hold on."

"Wait, Lestrade knows this, erm, man?"

Molly was shocked. The rapidly-greying DI seemed too straight-laced to know—whatever kind of man this was.

"Meet Lestrade's pet project. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a giant prick. He's a bloody genius, but he's a junkie. Lestrade seems to think he can get him on his feet. He's taken him under his wing, so-to-speak. Listen, you're far too sweet to have to deal with him, so just stay in the supply closet and—"

"Wait, how did you know I'm in the supply closet?"

"That's where you _always_ hide."

Molly made a note to stop hiding when confronted by challenges at work—or at least find a _new _hiding place.

"Anyway," her ex-boss continued, "just wait in there until Lestrade arrives. He'll take him home."

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, she heard the voice of the DI outside. Sherlock Holmes had removed himself from the floor at some point, and was now pacing around the room, still having an intense debate with himself. He looked up upon hearing Lestrade's voice and attempted to run over to him. He got about two good-steps in before tripping over his feet and tumbling to the floor. His face was horribly gaunt, and his black hair was drenched in sweat. His pupils were blown wide, leaving the bright-grey of his eyes as a mere band around them.

"Alright, up you go." the DI said, pulling one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulder.

Sherlock was rather beautiful, in a fallen-angel way.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade." It was actually the first time she'd spoken to him directly. Whenever he stopped by the morgue, it was to talk to Mr. Bahlmor, while she was standing behind him taking notes and grabbing whatever he needed her to.

"If you've taken over for Wally, you can just call me Greg." he said over his shoulder as he attempted to open the door and carry an aggravated six-foot tall man at the same time.

She rushed over to help him and escorted him down the hall to open the elevator door as well.

"Is—is he high?" she said in a whisper, as if worried the junkie would be offended at the assumption.

"Why Lestrade? Can you tell me why?" said Sherlock, suddenly deciding to include others in his conversation.

"I have no idea, Sherlock." he said as he rolled his eyes.

"Why does that not surprise me?" he slurred, passing out for a moment before waking and starting his rant full-speed again.

"Yes, very." Lestrade said as he turned back to Molly to answer her question.

They reached the elevator door and Molly tapped the call elevator button.

"Thanks again-Ms. Hooper, right?" he said, grunting while he shifted Sherlock's weight. He'd passed out again.

"Molly. Call me Molly."

"Right. Well, hopefully, next time you see him, he'll be much more of an ass, and much less unconscious." Sherlock took that as his cue to wake up again, mid-way through a sentence about cats and tampering with evidence.

"Again? You mean he's coming back?" Molly said, wringing her hands. She didn't know how many early-morning scares like this she could take.

"Yes, but escorted by me. Oh, and send me the bill for anything he's managed to break." he said as the elevator door closed.

Molly let out a sigh of relief. She had a body to clean up—again, and she still had a day's worth of work to do. Reports on drownings wouldn't write themselves.

Molly was proud of her first day of her new job. Early road bumps aside, she had managed to accomplish everything she wanted to, and now a bubble bath was calling her name. She was halfway home, when an expensive black car slowed along side her. The door opened and a stunningly beautiful woman said:

"Come inside Ms. Hooper; you have a meeting to attend."

She wasn't sure if, at this meeting, she was going to be offered the chance to become a princess of some small, unheard-of country, or if she was going to be murdered in some very neat, and efficient way. Either way, the men that appeared behind her made it very clear that not attending wasn't an option.

The car pulled into a gorgeous parking lot, and a valet escorted her and the young woman out of the car. Molly was led into a restaurant filled with the smells of Italian food, violin music, and the soft clinking of silverware on plates. She was scoffed at by several women wearing long evening gowns, and no-doubt _real_ diamonds. She felt rather odd wearing jeans to an obviously wealthy restaurant with a dress code, but if this is the way her mysterious host wanted her to be, she was in no position to object.

She was led to a large ballroom, with one table in the center. She sat herself at the table and watched as a man in a three-piece suit walked to the table. His smile was unnerving, but that could just be the kidnapping affecting her. He slowly sat across from her, and simply stared for a while. Molly's eyes wandered to the food on the table, it looked delicious. She was unsure of whether she was allowed to eat it. The man across from her nodded and she took a garlic roll.

He began inspecting the tip of the umbrella he brought in with him. Molly cleared her throat, in the hopes that he would begin explaining why she was plucked from the street and brought here.

"You're rather polite, aren't you?" he said, looking back at her and leaning his umbrella against the table.

"Most people would have demanded an explanation by now, but you're not exactly the demanding type. I suppose that's why your flatmate walks all over you."

Molly tried to suppress a shudder. How did this man know about her flatmate? She'd never even complained about her. _Oh God_, what if there were cameras in the flat? How many people could have seen that time she—

"Relax, it was just an observation. I've no need to waste the resources to spy on you."

Molly was stung at that comment, though she wasn't sure why.

"It's come to my attention that you've had the misfortune of meeting Sherlock Holmes this morning."

Molly simply nodded.

"Well, I come bearing a simple message: if you bring no harm upon Sherlock Holmes, no harm will come upon you."

"A-are you a friend of his?" she stammered.

The man laughed and said, "No, he might call me his 'arch-enemy'."

"Oh God, what?" she said, making a grab for the mace in her purse.

"Mace isn't necessary Ms. Hooper!" he said waving his hands, but it was too late. The mace was out and ready to go. One of the security guards made a lunge for it, and caught her hand just in time to get sprayed in the face.

The guard went down, coughing and cursing. Molly looked up at the man seated across from her; he cast a look of disappointment at the guard as he writhed in pain.

"Sorry! Sorry! I'm so sorry. It's been a very stressful day, and first there was that guy in the morgue, then the guy in the cafeteria knocked me over, and then I got kidnapped, and—" she began to tear up.

The man floundered for words, but settled on silence. The man stood up from the table, unsure of what to do, and simply speed-walked toward the exit. She was led back to the car by the beautiful woman and driven home. She flopped into her bed, abandoning the idea of a nice bath, and passed out. Not even the thump of her flatmate's loud bass music was enough to keep her awake.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two months before Molly saw Sherlock again. She'd been informed by Lestrade that he'd been sent to some posh rehab center on an island. Eventually, he pulled a daring escape only to show up in Molly's morgue at closing time, still wearing patient's clothing. She debated calling Lestrade right then and there, but decided to have a bit of a chat first, or at least she tried to.

Sherlock had gained a good amount of weight and no longer resembled something she'd feared would show up in her closet as a little girl. His mop of black curls were gone, replaced with a buzz cut. His cheeks and nose were bright pink, but other than that, had remained impressively pale for someone who lived on an island. How he managed not to die of hypothermia on the journey from the airport to St. Bart's was a mystery. The temperature was in the single digits that day, and the thin fabric of the patient's scrubs looked anything but cozy.

"Hello. Do you remember me?" she called to him as he walked straight past her to a box of gloves.

"No. Where's Bahlmor?" he said, opening one of the drawers to take out a scalpel and a pair of thin tweezers.

The pain of losing her mentor and friend was still fresh. She had yet to even wash the dress she'd worn to the funeral.

"Um, I'm afraid he's passed away. It was—"

"The diabetes that was never diagnosed, I know. Saw the signs of it years ago." He wheeled one of the bodies out of its drawer and drew back the sheet to examine its scalp.

Molly was speechless. She'd spent hours awake wondering how she didn't see the signs of Mr. Bahmor's illness, and here was someone who'd done just that, and never lifted a finger!

"W-what?" she squeaked, "Why didn't you tell him?"

He sliced into the body's forehead and pulled out a vintage coin.

"He was a grown adult; his inability to see a blatant health problem is none of my concern." he said with an exasperated sigh.

"Petri dish." He barked. She reached ran to the other side of the room and fetched it for him. She reprimanded herself for following the orders of a stranger in her morgue that she was infuriated with.

She was started to find that he'd moved incredibly close. She looked up at his face. Her heart was pounding and she began to sweat. _Oh God, were his eyes always this blue? He has nice cheekbones, very pointy. He looks like a statue; a beautiful, tall, pointy-cheek-boned statue._

She was snapped out of it by an "Interesting." from the man in front of her; practically on top of her really. She began to blush at that last thought.

He set the coin in the Petri dish and began taking off the gloves. He threw them on the belly of the body and began to walk toward the exit.

"Call Lestrade; tell him it was the cousin's nephew." he called over his shoulder. With that he disappeared around the corner, only to return to add, "Oh, and tell Lestrade he's incredibly ignorant." He disappeared once more.

He popped his head around the corner a final time to say, "Tell Anderson that as well, while you're at it."

She buried her head in her hands and groaned. She'd just developed a crush on the biggest prick in all of London, and with that thought; her mind went into the gutter once more.

"So, have you been kidnapped yet?" Lestrade said as he and Molly watched Sherlock circle the body on the table.

"It happened to you too?" she said incredulously. Whoever this arch-enemy was, he was very thorough.

"Yeah, two hours after I met him." he said motioning toward the man, who had now climbed up on the table and was standing over him with one eye closed. She'd have to clean off those shoeprints from the table later.

"So where did he take you? Abandoned car park? Old factory? Abandoned asylum?" Lestrade laughed.

"Some posh restaurant." she responded, looking at Sherlock with confusion, and wondering how waving the dead man's hands around like a marionette doll would help solve the case.

"Oh that's nice—wait, what?!" Lestrade gave her a look like she'd just declared she was the queen of England.

"What? Where did he take you?"

"A spot on the Thames riverbed notorious for dumping bodies." he shuttered.

"Oh." she paled and heard a clutter and crash in the direction of Sherlock; she decided it would be best not to look.

"His name's Mycroft Holmes." he said, casting a nervous glance toward the security camera in the room.

_Holmes._ Where had she heard that name before? _Oh God._

"They're related?!" she exclaimed.

Lestrade hushed her. "Quiet, he's listening."

Molly looked over to Sherlock, who seemed like he was too busy putting a bit of paint on the body's nose to notice anything else.

"No, not him." Lestrade continued, still whispering, "_Him._" he said pointing to a CCTV camera on the lamp post outside.

"Oh, I see." Molly said nodding in a reassuring way. Maybe Lestrade was working too hard?

Lestrade put his palm to his forehead and led her into the supply closet. He quietly clicked the door shut behind them. Molly blushed as he looked around the closet. Because she was in there so often, she'd decided to personalize it a bit. He thoroughly examined one of the kitten posters on the wall, and was startled when she put the fairy lights on. He shook his head and continued:

"Mycroft Holmes is Sherlock's brother. He works for the government; don't ask me what he does though. It was hard enough digging up his name, and he found out I'd researched him a few minutes later. He gave me a stern talking to."

Molly leaned in. "What did he do?"

"He took me to a swimming pool."

"Oh, well that doesn't sound so bad."

"It had sharks in it Molly. Fucking. Sharks." he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

The closet door swung open, letting the harsh florescent lights of the examination room in with it.

"If you two are done snogging in here, we have a paint shop owner to arrest." Sherlock said, striding over to the coat rack to grab a tattered black jacket and an itchy-looking green scarf.

"W-we were NOT snogging." Molly stammered.

"Well, you're obviously romantically interested in him." he sniffed and began circling her.

"You're wearing clothes that haven't fit you in three or more years, you're wearing heels today as well, that can't be practical for a mortician, and—" his face contorted in disgust, "you're wearing enough perfume to lure every animal in heat occupying London to your doorstep."

Molly turned the same shade of crimson as the lipstick she'd debated buying yesterday at the shop; she'd decided the 'prostitute/mortician' look wasn't what she was aiming for, and put the lipstick back. She had half a mind to go back to her nice hiding-closet.

At that moment, all feelings for Sherlock should have ceased to exist, but hings rarely happen as they should. Any sane woman would see that he wasn't interested, and would move on to someone much more sensible—or at least someone less likely to murder her. Instead, she mentally crossed perfume off of the list of things that Sherlock might be attracted to. So far that list consisted of one thing: murder. She was pretty sure dying would be a terrible first date, and would render a second date impossible.

Sherlock hurried out of the room. Lestrade stayed behind and gave her a sympathetic look.

"It's him you're interested in, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"He's an idiot."

"Yep."

"God help you." he said, patting her on the shoulder.

Some holy help would be nice, but Molly suspected the help of a good hitman would be more fruitful.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Lestrade said, rushing down the hall.

And just like that she was left alone to stew in her thoughts about kidnapping brothers, secret government workers, and sharks in pools. _Maybe Sherlock is like James Bond; if James Bond looked like he was carved out of alabaster and had narcotics issues._


	3. Chapter 3

It was unfortunate that people were confused by Molly; what was even _more _unfortunate was that the confusion was mutual. If someone were to look at her laptop, they would not doubt question the sanity of someone whose favorite photos alternated between kittens in fashionable hats and high-quality photos of her visit to a body farm.

As a child, Molly was fascinated by things others would find morbid. She would vibrate with excitement on days when dissections were planned. For her twelfth birthday she received a large book on the Black Plague. Give her an unfortunate animal in the road and she would be engrossed for hours. She wasn't a psychopath; she would never dream of hurting an animal. As a matter of fact, she spent most of her time working at an animal shelter growing up. Her kind-hearted nature never deterred her classmates from ridiculing and avoiding her. She couldn't pretend that it didn't affect her, but she preferred the company of a good copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ to a hormone-ridden boy anyway. However, she came out of high school with the self-esteem of a bag of potatoes as a result.

Her mother didn't understand how such a soft-spoken and gentle person could go into such a "dreadful business" as working with the dead. At first, Molly wanted to be a doctor; she decided against it upon learning that a doctor was one part scientist and the other part entertainer. Dealing with patients was something Molly just couldn't handle. Her bedside manner was horrible; she was kind, but completely inept when it came to censoring herself. The conversations with the ill always seemed to wander back to the worst possible scenario: death. Even the victim of a common cold in her care was bound to be regaled with tales of choking on mucus in their sleep. She would give all the gruesome details, her face alight with the happiness of someone giving away a juicy secret. After all, a body shutting down was just as fascinating as a body in working order. She could never abandon the field of anatomy and medicine completely, so she changed her career path to work with people it was impossible to offend.

Because of the nature of her career, her love life was anything but thriving. Her last date was four months ago. A nice man by the name of Jamie; it ended with him getting sick at dinner. In Molly's defense, he told her he wasn't squeamish.-How was she to know that a description of her recent cadaver's ruptured bowels would push him over the edge?-But that would change if she managed to catch the eye of Sherlock. She dreamed of talks of decomposition patterns over candlelit dinners.

She needed a plan of action. So, the night after her conversation with Lestrade, she outlined just that while _Singing in the Rain_ played in the background. She wrote in a yellow, floral notebook with her lucky purple pen. By the last musical number, Molly was sharing her bed with twenty seven balled-up pieces of paper and three Toblerone containers.

As she shook the debris of her brain-storming session off of her bed, she decided the straight-forward approach would be best. After all, Sherlock never seemed to have any qualms with being honest and to-the-point, so why should she? She clicked on her alarm clock and flicked off her lamp.

Molly dreamed of tall, pale men in tailcoats that never bored of her demonstrating her latest-and much more efficient—method of removing a sternum from a bloated corpse. She looked down at her clothes, and thought it was rather silly to perform an autopsy in a ballroom gown, but decided not to argue with her subconscious.

Suddenly, an orchestra began to play, and the pale blue walls of the morgue fell away revealing a large ballroom. A thick fog went up to her shins. She giggled; her mind never seemed to shy away from the dramatic in her dreams.

She was rather disappointed that all of her admirers had vanished, but they were immediately forgotten when Sherlock's voice called to her. Her eyes were drawn to a tall, tuxedo clad figure that rose from the fog. He offered her a long, pale hand.

She'd have to give her brain a pat on its proverbial back later for this.

Three more months passed without a sighting of tall, rude, and gorgeous. She hoped Lestrade couldn't see the disappointment that ran through her every time he walked through the door without Sherlock following suit. Molly wanted to ask him how Sherlock was doing, but was much too embarrassed to do so.

Curiosity eventually got the better of her as she watched Lestrade quickly leaf through a report on a stabbing victim.

"So, have you seen Sherlock lately?" she said before taking a sip of the coffee that the DI was nice enough to provide.

"If hell's frozen over, he's pacing around his room at the community house he's being forced to stay at until he gets his habit under control. If not, then he's probably doing something illegal as we speak. I'm afraid these murder cases are a bit too mundane for his taste." he said, cracking a smile.

He set the report on the counter behind him, sighed, and rubbed his brow with one hand.

"It's times like these when I really worry about him. Left to his own devices, he falls apart. Says it's because he's bored. Normal people read a book, or watch telly when they're bored, but _he _has to pretend to be a foreign official and see how long it takes him to get caught in a government building."

Molly set aside her coffee and walked over to him, realizing that the conversation had taken a turn for the more serious. She though about putting her arm around him, but decided it would be too friendly a gesture for someone she didn't know very well; so instead she awkwardly hovered a few feet from him.

"Did anyone ever tell you about the first time I met him?" he said with a chuckle.

"No."

"It was about two years before I made DI, he was about twenty two, just a kid really. He was arrested for public intoxication and possession of narcotics. He managed to solve four murders in the twenty minutes he was being held for processing. Initially, we all thought he was the murderer. I mean, the stuff he was spouting off were details that we hadn't released to the press yet! He would've been hauled off to trial if I hadn't listened to my gut and followed up on his little 'deductions'. I managed to clear him of charges and released him on the promise that I wouldn't see him in a holding cell again—a promise that he managed to keep for a week. He's been a thorn in my side ever since."

"Why do you care about him so much?" she found herself blurting out. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand to signify forgiveness.

"Because he's a bloody genius, and a mind like that deserves better than a death in some alley; which is exactly where he's headed if he doesn't stop."

"Have you ever tried convincing him to join the police?"

"Yeah, and he's laughed in my face every time, the git."

Molly suppressed a giggle as the image of Sherlock responding to domestic calls and unpaid parking tickets fluttered into her mind. Apparently Lestrade was thinking the same, as he began to laugh as well.

The DI clapped his hands together and straightened up saying:

"Oi! What am I doing here complaining? I've got a job to do, catching murderers and such. London's probably falling apart as we speak. Thanks for the report."

With a wink and a nod, he scooped up his coat and left the morgue, leaving Molly to finish her coffee and identify two cadavers.

Maybe she could save the image of Sherlock in uniform for later.

"…so then, he pulls back the fingernail, and finds the pieces of the flower petal!" Molly exclaimed, waiving her hands excitedly.

"He was tackled by security after that, but I heard some of the explanation before they took him away. Apparently, the gardener had a summer home in India where he kept a—"

"Ma'am, you're going to need to pay now. You're holding up the line."

Molly glanced behind her and saw a dozen or so agitated nurses and doctors.

Talking to cashiers for _much_ longer than was necessary was another habit she was hoping to break this year.

"Right, yeah, sorry." she said, quickly grabbing her cafeteria tray.

She walked as fast as one could while carrying a bowl of soup; she counted eighteen angry eyes following her as she sped past the line.

"Molly, over here!"

She turned quickly as she heard her voice called; a bit of her soup slopped over the rim of her bowl.

It was Mike Stamford. They'd been friends since the beginning of her internship, getting to know each other from their frequent use of St. Bart's lab. He seemed to be the only person who shared her admiration of Sherlock Holmes. She felt comfortable rambling about the genius of her dreams to him.

"Mike, he solved another one today!"

"—Not even a 'hello' today, eh?-"

"-You know that body that came in with the elephant tattoo?-"

"—The one that looked a bit like a horse with a funny neck?—"

"-Well, he came in talking about a boa constrictor and asked to see the body—"

"-Somehow I doubt he 'asked'—"

"—Then, Mike, do y'know what happened next?—"

"—If I said yes, would it matter?—"

"—He turned him onto his front and—"

Molly was suddenly startled by Mike's famous belly laugh. She was rather irritated about being interrupted at the peak of her story. She hadn't even mentioned that Lestrade rushed in wearing pajamas to stop Sherlock from being tasered yet.

"What? What is it?" she said, folding her arms defensively.

"Nothing, just—you!"

Of all the possible answers to that question, _that_ had to be her least favorite. She began nervously picking at the end of her ponytail.

"Don't take it that way." he said, realizing Molly had clammed-up.

"I just can't believe you're so _infatuated_ with Sherlock. Sure, he's a genius, but that personality is a hell-of-a-thing to overlook."

Molly shrugged, and chased the oyster crackers in her soup around with a spoon.

"Mike, what kind of women do you think he's interested in?"

Mike was silent for a minute, and rubbed his hand on his chin. Molly leaned in when she was sure he had an answer.

"Well, I would think he's more of a 'fourth-victim' kind of bloke, but I'm sure he'd go for an 'unusual-suicide' under the right circumstances."

She deflated back into the cafeteria chair.

"I'm serious Mike! I'm on the verge of taking up a hobby nighttime-slaying. At least then he would stop calling me Bahlmor…"

He clapped a hand on her back, and offered a sympathetic smile.

"Ah well, I'm sure I'll get his attention next time!" she said smacking her fist into her open hand. Mike laughed and shook his head. He both pitied and admired her optimism.

"I'm sure it wouldn't hurt my chances if I carved his initials into my victims. I'm sure he'd love to have a dead body all to himse— Wait! That's it!" she said as she sprang up from her seat. She all but sprinted out of the cafeteria.

"We already discussed this, Molly! Murder _isn't_ an option!" he shouted after her; it earned him a few curious looks. It didn't bother him much, most of his students already thought he was Satan incarnate because of his grading scale anyhow.

He slowly slid Molly's tray of food toward himself. He certainly wasn't going to let a good bowl of soup go to waste.

Molly spent the next few evenings with paperwork spread across her dinner table. She worked, and re-worked the figures to make sure no hospital staff would get curious and come poking around. She found herself more impressed by her fellow university students than she'd been a few days ago. How had they managed to steal a corpse every year for their annual practical joke? That poor, poor professor nearly had a heart attack when he found it in his trunk last year.

There were currently three candidates for the great honor of being Sherlock's gift: A homeless Jane Doe; age sixty-four; died of acute liver failure. Molly was unsure whether Sherlock would be bothered that the swelling of the liver had damaged some of the tissue and bits of albumin were still present. The second candidate was an eighty-year old dementia patient with no relatives to speak of. He had advanced stage rheumatoid arthritis, so any bone experiments would be tainted. The third candidate was a sixty-seven year old stroke victim, also a John Doe. He was moderately obese, but aside from some joint wear-and-tear and some thyroid problems, he had no other conditions or illnesses.

After a long period of deliberation, she decided contestant number three was the unlucky winner. She debated cleaning him up a bit, but decided Sherlock might want to take samples of all the dirt and various grime for experiments as well.

She exited her apartment and had gotten to the last flight of stairs when she heard:

"Miss Hooper, if you'll come with me." The familiar woman was leaning against the banister of the staircase.

Molly could hear the clicking of her perfect nails on the keys of her phone. She didn't glance up as Molly slid in the pleasantly warm car after her. Ride was painfully silent and Molly found her eyelids were rather heavy without her first cup of coffee in hand. The car pulled into a small park that she didn't recognize- Which, when she thought about it, was probably the point.

The park smelled of wet grass and was just turning off its path lights as the pale-orange light of morning poked over the horizon. She saw a few early-morning joggers in the distance, but otherwise the park was empty. She was led to a small plaza with a fountain. As she approached it, she saw the silhouette of a man seated stiffly on one of the benches. She glanced around and saw no signs of sharks, but decided she wouldn't step too close to the fountain just in case. As she circled around to his front, she saw Mycroft rapping the end of his umbrella against the side of the bench. The metal bars produced an eerie echo when struck; Molly shivered, but the cold played no role in that.

She wasn't offered a seat. Instead, Mycroft looked up at her and gave a smile that contradicted the look in his eyes. Molly felt a joke would lighten the mood.

"Your guards seem a bit more nervous around me. I promise I left the mace on the kitchen counter this time."

"We made sure you did." he said, as his eyes bore holes in her.

Molly tried to convincer herself that he was joking, but decided she would install an extra lock on her door just in case—and maybe purchase some new blinds as well.

"It's come to my attention that you plan on giving my brother an unclaimed corpse."

Molly opened her mouth a few times but found her tongue unwilling to move. She'd never been to jail before, and rather liked her job, so this situation posed a bit of a problem.

"I'm grateful; this solves an issue I've been overlooking for years. Grave-robbing is rather unbecoming of him." he sighed and studied the tip of his umbrella.

He lowered his umbrella and rose from the bench. He peered down at her and said in a low voice:

"You will consult me before deciding to commit any felonies on Sherlock's behalf. I don't consider you a threat; don't make me re-evaluate my assessment."

She didn't dare move until he was clear out of view. She wasn't offered a ride back.

As luck would have it—if you could call someone using private property illegally 'luck'- Molly found Sherlock in her lab when she arrived. She was very late and had to spend an uncomfortable sum of money on a cab to get back to her apartment.

"Mycroft kept you, did he? I'm surprised he talked to you twice. He rarely does that." he called, eyes fixed his pH testing.

She was both ecstatic and suspicious that Sherlock initiated a conversation first. She gave the lab a quick once-over to see if he'd broken any expensive equipment. Nothing seemed out of place except for the turned-over drawer the litmus paper was kept in. She sniffed the air to check for a gas leak, and when that came up negative, she maneuvered herself to see if Sherlock's pupils were dilated. He wasn't high either.

Sherlock's hair had grown in again, and he looked like he'd built up a bit more muscle tone as well.

Deciding it was as good a time as any, she rushed back to the morgue and returned to the lab carrying a small cold-storage box. She slipped on her gloves and gingerly took out the severed arm and placed it the counter-top beside the microscope Sherlock was hunched over.

She waited, hoping for an immediate reaction, but received none. Maybe he hadn't seen it? She slowly inched the tray closer, but this yielded no results.

Accepting defeat, she turned to walk away.

"Molly, why is there a thawing appendage beside me?" he said as he adjusted the microscope's focus.

"It's for you." she said, pretending to catalogue the beakers.

"I regret to inform you that I already have two in working order."

"No, no. To experiment on here in the lab. You're always complai—I mean asking for suitable tissue samples, and I had this lying around." she had to clasp her hands together to prevent herself from picking at the ends of her ponytail.

He looked up from the microscope eyepiece to cast Molly a skeptical look. He eyed her suspiciously and poked the arm with a nearby pair of tweezers.

"If this is Mycroft's clever new way to plant a tracking device on me—"

"No, no. All my idea. Actually, I don't think your brother likes me very much. He was a bit cross about not getting his permission."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile and his gaze wandered up to her face again. It was the first time Sherlock had ever looked her dead in the eyes. He gave her a nod that, she assumed, was a 'thank-you'.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath, and let out a small cough when a burning smell reached her nostrils.

Sherlock cursed and ran over to the source. A beaker was boiling over a flame and yellow smoke billowed into the air.

She ran into the hallway to fan the smoke detector. Her pay was docked last time the sprinklers came on.

Sherlock wandered out into the hallway, still holding a fuming beaker, and donning a gas mask.

"A wrist would be better next time."

"Alright, I'll-wait, what do you mean _'next time'_?" she stammered.

Her inquiry went unheard as he walked back into the lab.

Had Molly known that by giving Sherlock that foot, she'd given him permission to take any part or parts of an unclaimed body for the indefinite future, she'd have asked for a date in return, or at least coffee.

Hindsight's always 20/20.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly scrambled to lock the cupboards containing the more valuable and dangerous lab equipment as she heard Sherlock's voice approaching.

"Please don't touch the ones with the rash." she said as quickly as she could.

If Sherlock was on his usual warpath, then he would head straight to the wall of gleaming, silver doors wherein the bodies were stored.

She let out a gasp as she whipped around her neck so her eyes could chase the black figure that swept inside.

She scampered over to the DI with her eyes wide.

"What is _that_?" she said, motioning to the wool _cloak_—as it would be a crime to call it anything else—draped over the rambling man's shoulders.

"The spoils of closing of his first private case. The man gets fifteen-hundred pounds and spends all of it on a bloody coat!" Lestrade threw his hands up in a show of theatrical exasperation.

"Someone hired him privately? That's good; anyone I know?" she kept one eye fixed on Sherlock. You never knew when he was likely to pull out a bone saw and decide to take home a piece of the nearest cadaver. He seemed to think the morgue was akin to a self serve restaurant.

"No, he's a mate of mine. He was in a tough spot so I steered him Sherlock's way;" He turned to hang up his coat and looked back with a wince. "though I wish I'd told him ahead of time about Sherlock's habit of insulting first, and solving problems later."

They were both startled by a loud _clank_ in Sherlock's corner of the room. Molly rushed over, worrying the corner of her labcoat. They saw Sherlock studiously gazing through the new microscope; purchased with the hospital's recent grant money. Next to him was a pair of bolt cutters and a broken padlock.

"Wha—where the hell were you hiding _that_?" Lestrade asked, picking up the lock and examining the clean cut.

Sherlock motioned at his coat thrown over a desk lamp behind him.

"The pockets on the inside are very spacious; that's the reason I purchased it."

"My arse," Lestrade grumbled, "you had the thing for less than two minutes before you flipped the collar up."

Molly let out a quiet sigh. She'd paid for that lock. She tossed it in the trash and it hit the bottom with a solid _thunk_.

"Well I like it; the coat, I mean. It suits your—" she trailed off when she realized that both men were invested in a heated argument about whether or not Sherlock bought the coat for its functionality or because he's actually a closet fashionista. Well, heated on Sherlock's side anyway. Lestrade was just mocking him, really.

She quietly checked the cabinet door for scuffs and began reorganizing the lab equipment that was pushed aside by Sherlock's haste to get to the shiny, new toy in the back.

"I have a new spore sample to put into the hospital's database." he said as he materialized a jar from his new coat's magical pockets.

"Oh great! What is it?" she said popping open the lid to peer inside. At the bottom sat a small orange lump.

"Hm?" he responded as he plucked out one of Lestrade's hairs and slid it under the microscope.

"Oh, yes. It's a highly poisonous sample from a rare flower in Venezuela."

Molly popped the lid closed again with an "Eep!" and slid it across the counter to be labeled "hazardous" later.

"Right, well," Lestrade said, rubbing the spot on his scalp where one of his hairs had been so unceremoniously removed, "I hear you have something to show me?"

Explaining the autopsy reports took a full twenty minutes longer than needed due to Sherlock's interruptions and scoffs at "shoddy work" done by all involved.

She had half a mind to complain to Lestrade about the reports she'd received from his new forensics man- he had horrible handwriting and used too many abbreviations—but she couldn't remember his name. It began with an "A", she thought. No matter, with the work this Mr. A is giving her, he won't be around for much longer.

"Thanks again Molly. Alright if I leave him here with you?" Lestrade said, all too happy to pass the baton that was Sherlock Holmes for the night.

Molly looked over at Sherlock who—having ceased his running commentary on the sorry state of the Yard—now seemed content with viewing the stack of thirty-or-so slides through the fresh perspective of the new, more advanced microscope.

"Yes, I'll be fine; Good night Detective Inspector."

She turned back to Sherlock, who, if it hadn't been for the empty back of crisps by his right hand, would've looked like he hadn't moved an inch. So much for _that_ portion of her lunch.

"If you'd wanted something to eat, I could've bought something from the machine down the hall. It's no trouble really; I would just rather you didn't eat around the samples—or the bodies for that matter."

He responded with his usual "Mhm."

He was _definitely_ government trained if he was able to silently down a whole bag of crisps in less than forty seconds.

"Speaking of which, where to you keep the medical samples and such that I gi—have left around for you to take?" she wondered aloud.

Perhaps he had a cold storage unit at home? Government jobs pay well, so he might even have a lab of his own. Maybe he just comes here for Molly's company, and he's just in too dangerous a position to become romantically involved with her, so instead, he allows himself the pleasure of watching her from afar?

"I keep them in the meat locker of the Chinese takeaway restaurant below me."

Or he keeps them in a Chinese takeaway meat locker.

Molly made sure to take down its name and double check the spelling so she could be absolutely sure she never stepped foot in the establishment. And to think that the foot with the flaky skin she gave him last month might end up in someone's lemon chicken!

Seeing that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere soon, she gathered some of her reports that needed writing and began working on them across the counter from him.

She was halfway through report number two when she felt the urge to say:

"You look nice today."

She expected a snide remark, or reprimand about using a word as "uncreative and nonspecific" as "nice", but received none. The reason was clear when she looked at the hand not adjusting the various knobs of the microscope. It lay limp on the countertop.

Sherlock was very fidgety and was always twiddling something in his hands or bouncing his leg. The only time he remained still was when his attention was fully devoted to a task. She might as well be talking to one of the corpses when he fell into one of his almost catatonic-like states.

Feeling a bit more confident with the knowledge that what she said went, for the most part, unheard, she began complimenting his knowledge of thread types that he'd demonstrated during the case last week. She then moved to suggesting samples that were best viewed through the microscope before him. Before she knew it, she was all but rattling off her shopping list to him, only stopping her chatter when one of his hands searched around the countertop for a new slide.

She reminded herself of a rabbit darting back into its hole at the first sign of danger. She then took note that she should stop watching so many nature documentaries. She was already on the verge of buying a cat she knew she didn't have time for. Besides, a cat would definitely be the last nail in her metaphorical spinster-coffin.

She clammed up when she saw him roll his neck and reach for his coat. Her potential sealant in the spinster category suddenly had her tongue. It would be awful rude of her to let him leave without saying anything.

_Alright Molly, you can do this. Just ease into the conversation and casually ask him to dinner as a side note. Ready? Go!_

He slid one arm into the coat and shuffled the other portion onto his shoulder.

_Okay fair enough, that was just a practice run then. This time, honestly—in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—_

The other arm went in and he lined the sides of the coat up to begin with the buttons.

_0, -1._

First button done. It was a new coat, so the buttons were probably stiff.

_Alright this is being a little bit ridiculous. This is even worse than that time you had to say that speech in grade school. You know, the one about bike safety? I wonder why I was forced to do that? They knew I didn't—_

Second and third button done.

_Don't get distracted. Focus. Oh, he's leaving, he seems intent on that, so maybe I shouldn't bother him- _

Just as he finished fiddling with the top button, she blurted:

"Boyit'schillyoutside; ?"

_Well, that went well. _

Sherlock turned to her and raised an eyebrow. Molly swallowed.

"Why do you think I need a scarf?" he asked.

Of course that's what he'd take away from what she said.

"You should get a scarf—um, because your neck—looks—cold?"

He seemed to ponder this for a moment, and turned on his heels to leave, his coat flowing behind him as he ghosted out of the lab.

"At least that wasn't a 'no'." She said to herself as she tried to figure out what to do with her new pair of bolt cutters.

"—so then, he pulls out a pair of bolt cutters and just—Hey where are you going?"

The cashier threw down his hair net and walked out of the cafeteria. The line behind Molly groaned and set down their trays.

"Oh dear, I've done it again haven't I?" Molly said as she debated just setting money on the counter and going.

She decided against it remembering that she ate free. Four hungry doctors were throttling her with their eyes as she left.

She looked around the cafeteria for Mike, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, she saw Sherlock staring intently at her from an empty table in the center of the cafeteria. It was both impressive and frightening that he'd managed to clear an entire table. She waved and received no response. She looked behind her to make sure he wasn't glaring at someone else, but it was just her and the wall.

She cautiously made her way to the table and slid slowly into the seat.

"H-have you seen Mike around?"

"I gave him some errands to run." he said, folding his hands in front of him and straightening his back.

He looked just like his brother.

"I'm actually here about your dinner offer. If you haven't rescinded it, I would like to take you up on it." He slapped a purple flyer on the table.

"Hang on, when you say you 'gave him errands' what do you m—" she began.

Her mind skidded to a halt. She dropped the sandwich she'd been holding.

A string of vowels slipped from her mouth.

"Ah, well, er, um, you—well that is, I—are you—have you—yes, alright, let's go, yes, of course, okay." she said as she stood up, letting the dropped sandwich roll off of her lap.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not _right now_."

Molly quickly sat down.

"Of course, silly me. So, ah, when then?"

He pointed to the flyer.

It read:

_Staff Banquet!_

_As a show of appreciation for the wonderful work done this year, St. Bartholomew's Hospital is offering a complimentary banquet on March 17__th__. It will take place at Painter's Hall, _9 _Little Trinity Lane. All staff are welcome with a free plus-one. Up to three guests are allowed per person. Speak to Maggie at the front desk if there are any questions/complications with this arrangement. Cleaning and reception staff will be asked to pay a small entrance fee, but will still receive a free plus-one. Doors open at 5:30 PM. Dinner will be served at 7:00 PM. Formal attire is not required, but recommended. We hope to see you there! _

"I'm going to be your 'plus one'. Be ready at six o'clock. I'll contact you." he said as he slid her phone across the table.

Molly patted the pockets of her lab coat. When did he take that?

He stood up and began to walk away.

"Wait! You don't know where I live. Am I meeting you there? Why did you take my phone?" she called after him.

The cafeteria was staring at Molly, who was grumbling to herself as she picked parts of her sandwich off of the floor.

Poor sandwich.

Molly was humming to herself in the elevator when she remembered what Mycroft said to her.

"_You will consult me before deciding to commit any felonies on Sherlock's behalf. I don't consider you a threat; don't make me re-evaluate my assessment."_

She didn't think she'd be committing any felonies during the date, but better safe than sorry.

She turned to the camera in the elevator.

"Um, hello Mycroft. I don't know if you can actually see this, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to dinner with Sherlock tomorrow night, so um, yeah. I'll try not to do anything, you know, illegal."

The camera stared back at her.

"Oh, of course you can't talk back to me. How silly. So, have a nice—night, then? Oh, what am I doing, it's not an answering machine."

"Sam! Hey, look at this nutter." David said as he nudged Sam out of his nap.

"Wha- Who's that? And why is she talking to us?" Sam said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"She's not talking to us, she's talking to some bloke named 'Mycroft'. Something about dinner." David said as he cranked up the volume on the TV.

"What the hell kind of a name is 'Mycroft'?" Sam said as he threw his head back and laughed.

"Fuck if I know, but she's kind of hot."

"Don't you know who she is? She's that mortician who has a thing for Sherlock." Sam said with concern in his voice.

"Oh yeah, I've heard of her. Did you know she talked so much to a cafeteria hand, he quit?" David recalled from his conversation with Steve earlier.

"No shit? Wow." Same tried to remember if that prisoner work program was still in place at the hospital. He would later learn it was.

"Yeah, she went on a date with a mate of mine and he told me she's one sick bird."

"Huh. Hey, did you hit the record button?"

"Did it three minutes ago, mate. The internet's going to love this." he said, folding his hands behind his head.

Molly paced back and forth in her living room. Drying her palms on her mint dress, she wished her teeth would stop chattering.

She ran over to her window for the fiftieth time that night when she heard a car door slam. No one was there. Suddenly, her text alert chirped. She dived for her phone on the couch.

_Do you own a chef's uniform? –SH _

Molly quickly tapped out a response.

_I think you might have the wrong number. This is Molly Hooper's mobile._

Less than three seconds went by before her phone chirped again.

_This is Sherlock Holmes, do keep up. Do you or do you not own a chef's uniform? –SH_

_No, sorry. Do I need one?_

The flyer had said formal wear, right? Oh no, she wasn't prepared for a costume party. Although she _did _still have that outfit from uni. She wasn't sure how appropriate it would be though. After all, it was a—

_No matter. Meet me at the back entrance of the hall in fifteen minutes. –SH_

When Molly arrived, she made her way down the side alley. She lifted the end of her dress to prevent it from getting dirty on the puddle sprinkled ground. She saw Sherlock leaning against the wall, taking a long drag from a cigarette about six meters away from the rear entrance. The soft orange glow of the cigarette's tip was the only light. When he saw her, he dropped it and stomped it out.

"Why are we meeting back here?" she asked, squinting in the darkness.

"I can't let the manager or security see me." he said, walking toward the floodlight of the back entrance.

Molly sidestepped a beer bottle and asked: " Why is that?"

"Because," he said as he scanned the alley, "if he does, I'll be in violation of the restraining order."

"Oh, right." She knew it was better not to ask.

As Sherlock stepped into the light, Molly could see he was wearing a pair of dark jeans, dress shoes, a collared shirt and a suit coat with brown elbow patches.

It was far from a top hat and tails, but it was nice.

He bounded up the five steps to the back entrance. Molly had a bit more trouble with her heals and rather tight dress. Sherlock huffed, took her handbag, and offered her an arm.

She hobbled her way up the steps with his help; the door opened with a loud squeak and Sherlock slipped inside. His hand poked back out of the doorway, tossing her handbag back and motioning her inside.

It was peculiar, her handbag felt a bit heavier than before. She clicked it open and felt something large and cold at the bottom. She lifted it and held it to the light.

It was a small, black handgun.

"Oh crumbs."


End file.
